The Best Exotic Muggle Hotel
by the real snape
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy and Mrs Zabini: After the wizarding war, much has changed and these two find themselves in the position to have to earn a They decide to open a bed-and-breakfast
1. Chapter 1

_Don't scream, don't think, don't scream, don't think, don't …_

Oh.

Narcissa Malfoy reached for her wand on the bedside table. "Lumos," she whispered. The faint light illuminated the room just enough for her to see the cheap closet that had to be kept closed by jamming a hankie between the doors, the faded curtains, and the drab, mustard-yellow paint on the walls.

It was true, then.

_He_ was dead.

_He_ was truly dead. Harry Potter had killed him. She had seen him do it.

_He_ was dead, she was at the wizarding boarding house, and Draco was back at Hogwarts.

Draco was safe.

She'd just had a nightmare, and now that she was fully awake, it was all right to think. Not, perhaps, to scream. One had to remember the other inmates. Guests, she meant. Lodgers.

But it was all right to think. _He_ couldn't do Legilimency anymore. _He_ couldn't do anything anymore to hurt Draco. That was a good thought; one to hold on to.

What was it her mother used to tell her, when she had had bad dreams as a little girl? "Wake up properly, or the bad dream might continue. And think of nice things."

In those days, there had always been nice things. Her new doll. A dress. A birthday party. And if Narcissa couldn't think of anything, her mother would come up with something. She had been good at imagining nice activities for little girls: helping with baking biscuits, a tea party with the doll's tea set and her mother the guest of honour, doing a drawing for Granny with the lovely new colours. "Think of what you want to put in the drawing, Cissy," and little Narcissa had fallen asleep within minutes, her head full of multi-coloured flowers and a big, yellow sun with a smile on it.

These days, things were very different. Suns didn't have smiles on them. Flowers were too expensive, and besides, the room offered neither a vase nor a table to hold them. Draco's safety was a good thing, though. And it made her remember what she had to do now.

Continue life, that's what. Make the best of it. Present a cheerful surface.

Life was difficult enough for Draco. True, he could have ended in Azkaban, and it was thanks to Shacklebolt's sensible ideas that he wasn't. The Minister was right: all Draco would learn there was resentment and criminal tricks. At Hogwarts, he could finish his education as well as do community service on the restoration of the building. And if the report from his teachers was favourable – it was a probationary year, Shacklebolt had insisted – he could find a job after his N.E.W.T.'s and become a 'useful member of society'.

And Draco was supposed to feel grateful for this and to show that gratitude. Malfoy Manor was taken, he was robbed of both his inheritance and the work he was groomed for. He had been through unspeakable horrors, his father _was_ in Azkaban, a now Dementor-free Azkaban, but still. All that was more than enough for her boy to get on with.

What he needed was a mother who was alive, free, and coping. He needed to know that she was _there_ for him whenever he wanted comfort, and he needed to know there was no reason to worry about her at all.

Perhaps Narcissa could think of her next weekly letter. Of what she'd put in it. Not the desperation she felt. Not how, for the past week, she'd had to limit herself to one meal a day. Not the misery of the job they had offered her. Not the humiliations she had to suffer.

Narcissa Accio'ed the handkerchief. The closet door creaked open. _Let it be,_ she thought. _If the goddam thing wants to be open, let it be._

No. That was giving in. That was not the spirit. She had to go on, for Draco. And the only way one could go on was by maintaining certain standards. By not letting oneself go. Narcissa carefully shut the door with a face-cloth. No need to wake up the lodgers.

This wouldn't do at all. She had to think of cheerful things. She had to make light of her present surroundings. Of the job offer. She had to find amusing little anecdotes for Draco's letter.

She had to be a support. Not a mill-stone.

Now, what could she put in that letter? It was getting more difficult by the week to come up with something bearable. She had been driven to inventing things completely. Not that that was a problem; as a small boy, Draco had enjoyed her stories, and judging from the letters she got back, he still did. She could make something up, if only she could stop crying.

Why, of course.

The meeting with Fiona. That was perfect. She could get a good, funny, cheerful letter out of it. Blow your nose, Narcissa Black, and think of nice things.

Meeting Fiona _had_ been nice. Unexpectedly so. True, Fiona and she went back a long way. The friendship that had started in their first weeks at Hogwarts had survived all of Fiona's marriages, Lucius's disapproval – quite outspoken after husband number three, or was it four? – and all the differences between two people, one of whom firmly believed that diamonds were a girl's best friends at all times, while the other was brought up with proper respect for the 'no pearls before five o'clock' rule.

So when Narcissa had spotted Fiona in Hogsmeade this morning, she had been fairly certain that Fiona wouldn't give her the _cut direct_. Fairly certain – but not quite. Too many people who once had begged for invitations to Malfoy Manor now enjoyed rubbing in her new status as a penniless DE's wife.

But Fiona had greeted her with enthusiasm, and within three minutes they had been ensconced in their favourite booth at Madam Puddifoot's, with a proper Cream Tea in front of them.

Narcissa had nearly gasped at the order – there went at least two meagre meals – but Fiona had insisted at once that it was her treat, given the very, very special favour she was going to ask of Narcissa.

Narcissa wouldn't write about the fear of being cut, of course, but the very special favour would make a great topic, indeed.

Now let's see … how exactly had it happened?

xoxoxoxox

Fiona Zabini had lost it.

Completely and utterly.

Narcissa had always known it would happen at some point, and today was clearly the day. It was the only possible explanation for the insane conversation she'd just had.

True, people did go in for career changes occasionally. And the end of the Wizarding World as they knew it was as good a time as any. After the final battle, Purebloods had lost their money and position all over the place. As a result, their worth as a career opportunity for Bridezilla Zabini was negligible – a change was clearly in order. And that was the _kind_ explanation.

The other explanation contained the words 'sell-by date' and 'middle-aged', and nice gels didn't use those words to describe other nice gels, even if said gels had stolen a perfectly good boyfriend at the Christmas Ball of 19- well, of quite some time ago.

It was understandable that Fiona intended to remain Fiona Zabini. Eight husbands and as many inheritances – one might argue that a woman's work was never done, but at some point graceful retirement was the only way left.

Or so Narcissa had been taught. One retired to a smaller house on the estate, one played a smaller part in social life, one became venerable rather than enchanting. Until that time when extreme old age – white-haired, black-laced, lavender-scented extreme old age – rendered one 'enchanting' once more. One accepted the praise gracefully, even if one thought that it was tantamount to being treated like a toddler. "Isn't she marvelous - at her age."

What one didn't do was start a bed-and-breakfast.

In a former Muggle prison, too.

Yet that was exactly what Fiona-the-Madcap had done. With money from her one Muggle husband. "It's always a good idea to spread one's investments, you know," Fiona had said, and Narcissa had nodded. One didn't agree out loud if agreeing out loud meant disloyalty to one's husband. But one did see the point, oh yes.

"And that's where you come in," Fiona had continued. "Let's face it, Lucius left you in a pretty pickle."

Which was true. It was also a remarkably refreshing way of putting it. Not the understatement – of course one didn't _wallow_ in a description of one's own, or one's friends' miseries. Fiona had made light of her own position, a very precarious one with a past that included saying "I do" to at least three known Death Eaters. A lot of people were trying to find out what, exactly, Fiona had done.

After the Dark Lord's first disappearance, Fiona had solved the problem by marrying the then editor of the _Daily Prophet_. Muggle born, admired for his courageous articles on Death Eaters' deeds, exceedingly wealthy. And, as Fiona had called it, a _mature_ hundred and twelve.

And now she wanted to start this bed-and-breakfast, and she wanted Narcissa to help her, since she, Narcissa, was in _a pretty pickle_. If the whole idea wasn't so insane, it would be tempting. There was equality in that offer. No maudlin pity, no humiliation. Just Fiona and Cissy, two former Slytherins, making the best of things.

And Fiona was right. Lucius would spend at least twenty years in Azkaban. Narcissa had no money, no career to fall back on, no home of her own. As to getting a job "to tide you over, until your son can support you," as the dreadful probation officer had suggested, Narcissa had no intention whatsoever of doing so. She would get a job, yes, but not to 'tide her over'. She _would not _be a burden to Draco. Which meant that her future looked extremely bleak, indeed.

It was not that Narcissa was without skills. She could run a household. Command a large domestic staff. Organise parties, receptions, every kind of social gathering. She could arrange flowers, decorate a house, and open a fair or organise a charity event.

But these, as the probation officer had explained with quite unnecessary patience in her voice, "these are not precisely _marketable_ skills, are they, Mrs. Malfoy?" And the woman had proposed a job as cleaning lady at St Mungo's. "I'm sure you're very house-proud," she had said.

House-proud! Her head-elf was house-proud, for the excellent reason that the immaculate state of the house was a testimony to her work. Molly Weasley was house-proud, for no discernible reason at all.

A Malfoy née Black wasn't house-proud. She was among the leading hostesses of her time.

And then Fiona had asked her to come and see the place. "It has potential, Cissy. Those stern lines. That prison structure. It needs a complete make-over, of course, but it could be a designer's delight. A boutique hotel, almost. I _know_ it can be fabulous – but I can't do it. I haven't your eye. You must come and decorate the place. I'll pay you for your time, just like I would a professional decorator – you are a professional, only better. Oh, come on, do say you will!"

Complete, utter insanity. Fiona Zabini had finally managed to scatter her marbles as wide as her investments.

But nice gels didn't tell other nice gels they were bonkers. Nice gels went down to the dreadful prison place, pretended to weigh the pros and the cons, and found a kind way of letting the other down.

And it was not as if she had anything else to do during the weekend. It was better than sitting on the bed in her dismal lodgings. Had someone truly looked at a sample of that god-awful mustard paint and said, "Yes! That's it! That's the very colour I want"?

Anything was better than to sit in squalor and think.

Anything.


	2. Chapter 2

_Don't scream, don't think, don't scream, don't think, don't …_

Oh.

"Lumos."

See? The boarding house.

It was true, then.

He was dead.

He was truly dead. Harry Potter had killed him. She had seen him do it.

He was dead, she was at the wizarding boarding house, and Draco was back at Hogwarts.

Draco was safe.

That was her thought to hold on to. Also, she hadn't had the nightmare for two nights in a row, now. That was a record; she _was_ coping. It wasn't just make-belief for Draco's sake. Not all of it.

He had enjoyed the letter about her meeting with Fiona. _Can't wait to hear what the place is like, Mum,_ he had written. _And she's right: you're the greatest self-appointed expert on Interior Decorating in any world – ours or theirs._

Self-appointed, eh? Cheeky little devil. How wonderful that Draco had been a cheeky little devil once more, even if it was only for one line in one letter. Oh, but he would be surprised at what she was going to tell him next. And it would be a good surprise.

And now she would go back to sleep. She'd think of pleasant things. Seeing Fiona's place. The letter she could write about it. The arrangements she had made with Fiona. Colour schemes. That was another good thing to think of.

She had been right; seeing Fiona's prison place had been better than sitting in the squalor of this boarding house and thinking.

xoxoxoxox

Narcissa sat in squalor, on a garish, plastic chair in the Muggle Penitentiary also known as Fiona's Folly, and thought.

It was what Fiona had suggested. "You take a good look, Cissy. Get a feel for the place. Think about it. Meanwhile I'll make tea, and then we can talk."

Narcissa's first thought was to run. It was what people who found themselves inside a prison did, given half a chance. It was what Fiona's customers would want to do. So much for making a roaring success of the place.

The second thought was to tear out the ghastly, concrete staircase that dominated the entrance. One might replace it by something elegant and sleek. Something in wrought iron, perhaps. That would go well with the iron banisters that lined the upper gallery.

The third thought was that tearing out quite so much solid concrete from the center of the building might cause implosion. True, implosion was an excellent starting point for the kind of redecoration the place needed. But not quite, perhaps, the advice Fiona expected.

The staircase would have to stay. Could it be prettified? Not in a million years. It would have to stay, then, as a stark, ugly reminder of what the place had been. It led to the first floor, where Fiona had planned, of all things, the luxury suites. "We'll break through the side walls and turn three cells into one suite – but we'll keep all the doors, of course. They're fabulous!" Fiona had enthused.

Also, they were a foot thick and not exactly easy to remove. And if one wanted the prison effect – why would anyone wish to stay in a prison of their own, free will? – they had to remain. Solid, grey-painted wood reinforced with steel.

Everything was grey here. She wondered why. Surely being in prison was the punishment – being robbed of your freedom, of the possibility of choice, of every little dignity. Why turn the surroundings into an additional punishment? _Unpainted_ grey concrete stairs – that was about saving money. But grey paint wasn't cheaper than other colours, so if one paid to have the walls painted, why choose grey?

She got up and carefully tried one or two spells – as she had feared, a Scourgify didn't help on the bricks. But Narcissa had learnt quite a lot during the restoration of the old Orangerie – her own very special contribution to the Manor. Never mind what the Malfoy men thought about passing on their inheritance to the next generation. The Malfoy women left their mark, too.

Ah, yes. The dull, grey paint could come off. It wouldn't take more than a day or three, and the soft yellow of the original bricks was most pleasing.

She studied the iron banisters. The design wasn't bad – stark, geometric, but not bad. If they were painted black … and black doors … and black railings on the staircase … with those mellow, brick walls … the concrete base would have to remain grey. A statement. A prison statement.

It would make the most stylish prison ever. The kind that would attract the best class of criminals. But a Muggle bed and breakfast? Most people who went on holiday wanted as much luxury as their income would allow them, surely? A change from their normal lives, and Muggles who spent their holidays in a bed and breakfast on the edge of a moor had to have desperately drab lives, if that was their idea of a good time. Poor people.

What would they _do_ on their travesty of a vacation? Fiona had mentioned stately homes nearby that would attract visitors. If her guests liked manors and their interiors, why would they chose a prison?

It was madness.

She would explain to Fiona that one couldn't combine manor opulence and concrete stairs – just imagine …

Actually, just imagine …

The doors, banisters, staircase – the whole _structure_ of the place as stern as could be.

And then opulence, over-the-top manor-style opulence, in the soft furnishings …

When Fiona finally came in with the tea – it wasn't until months later that Narcissa realised the combination of Slytherin cunning and reheating spells that had gone in waiting for the exact moment in which to return – Narcissa looked up and said, "I've had an idea …"

xoxoxoxox

_Don't scream, don't think, don't scream, don't think, don't …_

Oh.

"Lumos."

See? It was all right.

He was dead.

He was truly dead. Harry Potter had killed him. She had seen him do it.

Lord Voldemort was dead, and Draco was safe.

And she was no longer at the ghastly boarding house. She had upgraded to an official prison cell. No, better even, technically speaking this was the Warden's Room. Fiona and she both had rooms in the former staff quarter, and the reconstruction work in the prison proper was well under way.

The cells had been turned into luxury suites – well, the walls had been taken out and the plumbing was in place. Fiona and she were currently painting the rooms.

Hard work, but better than cleaning Sick Wards at St Mungo's. There, everyone would have hated and humiliated her, as they had done at the boarding house. And if that had been a political statement, an abhorrence of everything Voldemort stood for, she would have understood. She was a Death Eater's wife, and one shared one's husbands mistakes as one shared his victories.

But for most people, it wasn't political at all. The boarding house lodgers had ignored her when they thought she was a DE's wife. Ignored her pointedly, but no more than that. They had become positively malicious when they had found out that she was the wife of a once very rich man. From that moment on, they had all delighted in rubbing in that she was now poor, without servants, less than working class. Intentionally bumping into her on the stairs. Sniggering. Calling her 'Madam Muck' within earshot.

They enjoyed having an upper-class person in their power, and in St Mungo's it would have been the same. Here, in between the hours of painting, Fiona and she had … yes, one _could_ call it 'fun'. Real fun. The kind of fun that reminded Narcissa of the Slytherin Dorm, sometimes.

During one of their breaks, Fiona had introduced the concept of builder's tea. Narcissa had entered into the spirit of the working class thing, and had spoken of workers' rights, Unions, and strikes. A tea-compromise had been reached. Narcissa had written a mid-week letter to Draco, who had replied by return of Owl. He was proud, he wrote, to be the son of a Fighter for E-quali_tea_.

Draco was doing fine. And so was she. Even if she still had several nightmares a week. Although there were now three, sometimes four nights in a row that were all right. Would it ever stop completely?

The scream. The long, agonizing scream that was not, must not be, her own. _Don't scream, don't think, don't scream, don't think … don't …_ And the next scream and the next. None of them Narcissa's. All of them Narcissa's.

And then the nights, in her bedroom, and the screams starting again. None of them real, in the silent house, in the middle of the night, when all of _His_ followers were asleep and even Olivander and that poor Luna could try to get some rest. But all of them reality. Even Charity's, although hers had stopped a long time ago.

Narcissa would wake up, desperately trying not to scream, not to think. Wondering whether she _had_ screamed, _had_ thought in her sleep. Whether He knew. Don't think of Him. Don't think, don't think.

But she wouldn't dwell on the nightmare, even though it was safe to think now. There was no point in it. She had to cope, for Draco, and getting back to sleep would help her do it. Pleasant thoughts, therefore. Fiona always provided material; it was one of the lovely things about being around her. That, and knowing Fiona slept on the same floor and they were just hours away from a companionable breakfast and a day of work and laughter.

Although Fiona's last words before they went to bed weren't exactly suitable for pleasant thoughts. They might lead to _constructive_ ones, perhaps, but not pleasant.

In fact, Narcissa had downed a second glass of wine as soon as Fiona had finished her explanation of how, exactly, that Muggle store managed to be so affordable – "Cissy, darling, surely you see how it works? And besides, it'll be fun!"

Not Narcissa's idea of fun. But it might make a good letter to Draco. First, she'd have to tell him today's events, or he wouldn't be able to make head or tail of it.

So think of nice things. Think of today.

xoxoxoxoxox

It was a measure of Narcissa's despair that she actually used the words, "Darling, be reasonable." When had Fiona ever been reasonable? When she had spread her investments, true. When she had said 'yes' to the one of the richest catches on the Marriage Mart, agreed. And all right, when she had said yes, yes, and yes to the next ones as well.

But one shouldn't forget that this was also the woman who had said 'yes' to Dai Llewellyn just two months after her final N.E.W.T.s . Dai, mad, bad, and dangerous to know, who had gone through his money as fast as he earned it and who had allegedly died from being eaten by a chimaera on Mykonos.

Rumor had it that the chimaera in question had been a perfectly presentable young man with black hair that didn't resemble a lion's mane at all and a well-honed body that was as unlike a goat's as possible. Only the dragon's tail might make an apt metaphor, from what Narcissa had heard. And the position in which Fiona had allegedly found her husband and his _chimaera_ justified the use of the word 'eaten'.

And now Fiona, Madcap Fiona, stood in the middle of the beastly maze that was "the best Muggle furniture shop, Cissy, really, it's _fabulous_, they all say so," and urged her to look some more. "You'll find what you want – you're bound to. Such a large collection."

Narcissa had known the place was all wrong as soon as she'd seen it. The cheap-looking blue-and-yellow of the building had said it all. Never mind that those were the colours of the company's national flag. If they had had any class, they would have found a better way to express their patriotism.

And then Fiona had led her along a path that circled the entire store with no _exit_ sign in sight, and she, Narcissa, had made the effort to look at dreary little room after dreary little room, and she had said all the polite things. "Much effort made," and "wonderfully creative," and "they do make the best of it, the plucky little dears."

That should have been perfectly clear. But instead, Fiona had suggested they drew up a list of the things they wanted – they'd have to go and pick the items from the shelves themselves, it seemed.

A _list_ of the things they _wanted_.

And then Fiona had noticed the look in Narcissa's eyes, and she had said, rather peevishly, that everyone knew the Swedes were great with furniture, and not just furniture either, Fiona'd had a thing for Swedish balls for years.

Narcissa, her mind still on a tactful way of explaining the difference between Louis XV opulence and a spindly sitting implement called _Pong_ (what _were_ those people thinking of?), had asked Fiona which one of them had had the Swedish balls, and things had deteriorated from there.

Finally, Fiona had dragged her to a quiet corner next to a large metal basket with dish-washing brushes in fluorescent colours.

Narcissa thought she saw the name 'disko' on the brushes and briefly wondered whether Swedish Balls had a rudimentary sense of humour.

Fiona, looking frantically around her for fear of being overheard by Muggles, whispered that, like it or not, their budget was not unlimited, and Narcissa would have to make do.

"Darling, be reasonable. What do you expect us to do with things like _this_?" Narcissa asked, pointing at the Disco Brushes.

"Don't tempt me into a demonstration," Fiona answered, and she made a threatening gesture with a shocking-pink one. And then, suddenly, they both dissolved in laughter. "Remember Bella?" Fiona panted.

"Six of the juiciest with her hairbrush," Narcissa hiccoughed. "And she _so_ deserved it."

It ended with coffee for two. And, at last, Fiona listened. Yes, it was necessary for them to lie low, Narcissa explained. That was why they were starting a Muggle B&B. And yes, they should limit magic to a minimum, since they were living in a Muggle environment. But truly, if Fiona wanted any style, these … thingies … were impossible.

"You're right, Cissy. You're the one with the eye for decoration; that's why I asked you for this project in the first place. So you're the one calling the shots. These things, as they stand, are clearly out."

Narcissa heaved a sigh of relief.

"So you tell me where we can buy the kind of things you want – cheaply," Fiona continued. "It's your show, Cissy. Lead the way. Where did you buy furniture? Any Muggle places among them?"

Narcissa stared.

"Oh, come on. Surely you remember names? Even I know there's a Muggle place called Laura … Thingummy … That one may be a bit too expensive, but something like it. Where did you get your furniture?"

"One didn't buy it. One inherited," Narcissa answered at last.

"Oh, you poor thing," said Fiona. "Have another coffee. It must have been so perfectly dreadful."

Narcissa looked up sharply, expecting sarcasm. Would this be where friendliness ended and the Madam Muck routine began?

"How awful, the way everything changed for you, I mean," explained Fiona. "And … well, … don't take this wrong, your house was beautiful, I've always thought so, but … you never got to buy new things? Just go to a shop and pick whatever you wanted?"

Narcissa smiled. Thank Merlin. How wonderful to be wrong. Fiona _was_ a friend, and she shouldn't have doubted her. And she was an excellent listener, too, who said all the right things when Narcissa told her about the furniture of the Manor. And the family members who had left it. And the impossibility of chucking any of the unwanted things out, because one didn't put Great-Grandfather Archibald's Empire side-tables on the garbage heap, however much one disliked the ridiculous black-and-gold sphinxes that held up the front.

Fiona was full of sympathy when Narcissa told her about her mother-in-law, who had resisted each and every change Narcissa had wanted to make. This time, Fiona assured her, this time Narcissa would be able to have everything, absolutely everything, as she wanted it.

She also said the nicest things about Narcissa's Transfiguration skills, and it was true Narcissa had had an 'O' for her N.E.W.T.s. So amazing that Fiona should remember it. And Narcissa had to agree that once the furniture was in place a lot of the problems could be solved with Transfiguration.

Not the chairs, of course. But clever Fiona had heard of a place that sold fake period furniture, and if it wasn't too expensive they might get something Transfigurable there. And, as a fall-back scenario, Narcissa would see whether some of the more basic chairs had … possibilities.

The second tour of the shop was better. Narcissa managed to look beyond the dreadful little rooms and it was quite entertaining to scan each individual object for possibilities. They quickly developed a code language – "Archibald will love it" was much better, they both felt, than an assessment in Hogwarts marks. "After all, Sweden has the largest Troll population of Europe – or was that Norway? In any case, we'd better not take risks."

At the end of the day, they picked their furniture from the shelves like the most seasoned of Muggles, arranged delivery to the B&B, and returned home with a feeling of utter accomplishment and a bottle of white wine.

"We really mustn't drink too much tonight," Narcissa said, sipping her first glass. "We'll have a lot of painting to do in the next few days. If we don't have everything finished by next week, the nice man from the store won't be able to assemble the things – he can't do it in the middle of a paint job, can he?"

"You know," said Fiona, filling up Narcissa's glass, "there's one more special thing about this shop – I must have forgotten to tell you, Cissy."


End file.
